


Strands

by paperfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Human Lucifer, M/M, Post S8-AU, hair-cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:26:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperfeathers/pseuds/paperfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: post 8:23, human Lucifer. Sam/Lucifer (sort-of) preslash. Lucifer asks Sam to cut his hair. In homage to Mark Pellegrino’s hair in “Being Human”, though I’ve yet to see that show. Forgive the fluff, and the length. This thing ran away with me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strands

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This is a fairly old ficlet that was kicking around my tumblr account (the first Samifer I ever wrote, actually). Please forgive how fluffy it is.

Lucifer’s hair is growing out. It’s somewhat jarring, truth be told. Sam knows Lucifer hates it, hates the little bits and pieces of himself that remind him of what he’s lost. The little vulnerabilities like sleeping and eating and needing to go to the bathroom. If Lucifer has loathed humanity from the very start, Sam hates to think about how he might feel now. But he’s been -  for lack of a better word- adjusting. There’s been no celestial nuclear meltdowns, at any rate. But even so, Sam has to admit the fact that Lucifer’s continued good behavior rests solely on his shoulders is more than a little terrifying.  

Anyways, point is, Lucifer’s hair has been growing out. Sticking to the back of his neck, getting in his eyes. Sam sees him swiping his bangs aside in irritation, a gesture so bewilderingly human that it’s stopped Sam in his tracks. Five months after the angels fell and Lucifer showed up outside the bunker just when Sam was at Death’s very door. Sam barely remembered the days after he’d failed the third task, nothing but a blur of burning agony. Until he felt a sensation akin to cool water slipping through his veins, easing the burn, a rough hand on his forehead, and waking up to a familiar pair of sad blue eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion.

It’s far blonder than it has any right to be, is what Sam notices –and immediately feels like a tool for noticing first, of all things. Not quite the golden cloud Jess’ curls had been (after so many years the thought of her has dulled to a muted pang), somewhat lighter. Oddly enough, it suits him (he was the Lightbringer, after all).  That, coupled with the weight he’d lost (it had taken him a while to get the hang of eating, and even then he eats sparingly), makes him look younger. More vulnerable, though only through Sam’s eyes. He’s lost none of the intimidating authority he had when Sam first beheld him in that dream of a motel room, but he’s just the slightest bit more breakable. And if that’s a term he never thought he’d use to describe _Lucifer_ of all things, it’s the only word Sam can think of when he sees the hollowness in his eyes, and the dark circles beneath them when he can’t (or won’t) sleep.

The two of them don’t really talk much. Lucifer makes it a point to ignore Dean (and the death glares the older Winchester regularly shoots at him) and Kevin (who’s wise enough to stay out of his way). Crowley he barely flicked a look of irritated disdain. Castiel he almost murdered when the moment he showed up, and only Sam was able to stop him beating Castiel to death. Sometimes, Sam gets the feeling that Lucifer’s waiting for the proverbial floodgates to open, for Sam to rage at him, to hit him, anything. And he should, he really should. But the trials, if nothing else, seem to have drained him. He feels a strange emptiness where once there’d been rage, and when he sees Lucifer instead of the mocking illusion that plagued him after Cas tore down his wall he sees  _someone._ Still awe-inspiring, still terrible, but beneath that power a wounded child abandoned by the family he loved.  And that alone is enough for Sam. For Sam to provide (and keep providing) quiet lessons about humanity, nothing glorious, just the daily grind of waking up and facing life every morning. For Sam to allow Lucifer to be with him, a quiet presence close by, the guardian angel he never had (or had too late depending on how one looked at things.) For Sam to reach out, tentative, wary, and for Lucifer to do the same. Sam knows that someday their admittedly monumental issues had to be addressed, maybe when (if) heaven’s been put to rights and the angels get their powers back Lucifer would want to torch the world again. But for now, Sam feels a quiet sort of triumph when he sees Lucifer eat the food he bought him, carefully, with such a look of concentration on his face that Sam has to hide his smile in case Lucifer takes it the wrong way. When Lucifer all but falls into bed with exhaustion at the end of each day, all sprawled limbs and dignity forgotten. When each day reminded Sam of the angel Lucifer was and the humanity he was gaining despite his best efforts, instead of the Devil others regarded him to be.

Still, Sam is all but gobsmacked when Lucifer approaches him one evening in the bunker during a lull between hunts, shoulders strangely tense. In his hand is the knife Sam gave him after his first month, when he’d proved to the rest of them he wouldn’t murder anyone when they were the angels’ only shot at settling the score with Metatron.  

The expression on his face is the usual calm, but Sam sees right through it. It makes him tense from where he’s sitting on the bed. Whatever Lucifer’s about to ask, it must be something big, since the former archangel seems to be steeling himself against himself, if that even made any sense. He sets aside the lore book he’s perusing.   

“Sam,” Sam will never get used to how Lucifer seems to almost cradle his name in his mouth before speaking. Like a precious gift of faith, and there’s that strange mix of guilt and hope twisting in Sam’s gut whenever he remembers how he betrayed that faith, yet Lucifer still returned to save him.

“What’s up, Lucifer?” The question hangs between them like a mote of dust. Lucifer exhales. Opens his mouth and pauses, as if searching for the right words. There’s a line of bewilderment creasing Sam’s forehead now, not without a little trepidation. Finally Lucifer settles for a shrug.

“My hair’s getting in the way.” He winces a little with distaste, as if he finds human biology personally offensive and it’s so very him that Sam relaxes a fraction. “And since I don’t enjoy having my head look Iike a rat’s nest, unlike my little brother, I’m asking you to cut it.” A slight pause. “Please.”

The situation is so surreal that Sam takes a few seconds to get his bearings. “Uh… sure?” He pats the space in front of him. Lucifer walks toward him, back stiff. The knife he hands to Sam hilt-first before he sits on the bed, still rigidly uncomfortable. Sam takes the knife, at a loss.

 Sam and Dean have been cutting each other’s hair ever since he could remember.  It’s something he’s done so often that his hands are usually on autopilot, half his attention on Dean’s banter. This time is different. There’s a strange weight to the action, one hand on Lucifer’s neck, keeping him steady, the knife in his other hand feeling heavier than it should. Belatedly he realizes that he’s been holding it still far too long over the unprotected skin of Lucifer’s nape. The former archangel is a line of tension, not even easing when Sam moves, makes the first cut.

The first strands fall and Lucifer lets out a breath. It gleams on the dark grey blanket of Sam’s bed. Sam lowers the knife and reaches down for it. The hair feels dry, but soft. Lucifer’s craned his neck, staring at the lock of hair in Sam’s hand. There’s a lost look in his eyes, and Sam wonders what it feels for an archangel, once vast and unchanging, to begin losing bits and pieces of himself.

He brushes the thumb of his free hand over the column of Lucifer’s neck. It’s meant to be comforting, and Lucifer lets out a breath he probably didn’t realize he was holding. Lucifer’s skin is warm to the touch, warm and living and  _human,_ and this is what feels most surreal of all. That the devil would choose to be here, with him, with all his newfound vulnerability, trusting him with the cold edge of a knife. If Sam had a name for the emotion that wells up in his chest, easing the hollow space the trials left in him, it would be tenderness. But a strange, fierce tenderness, mixed with awe, protectiveness, humility and a light touch of fear.

Fingers brush against his cheek, and Sam jumps. So engrossed in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice that Lucifer had turned to face him. There’s a quiet fascination in Lucifer’s touch, as if he’s mapping Sam out. The fingers trail around Sam’s eyes, along the slope of his nose, tracing his bottom lip. Sam’s breath hitches at the intimacy of the gesture, and Lucifer draws back, as if catching himself. He turns away almost violently, almost rising from the bed. But Sam catches his wrist, coaxes him down.

Sam takes up the knife once again, resumes cutting, sharpened metal ghosting over bare skin. From time to time he stops, brushing errant strands away from Lucifer’s nape. He finishes after a good thirty minutes. Lucifer’s hair is still longer than it was when they’d first met, lying flat on his head, but at least it’s now a sensible length. Sam runs his fingers through it, straightening it, as Lucifer leans into his touch.              


End file.
